


Saint Patrick

by fyborg23



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Crack, Gen, M/M, you sit in the box and feel great shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavy's heard a few things about Roy. Most of them his silly goalie superstitions, but the one that sticks out in Lavy's mind at the moment is that Roy, with practically no coaching experience at the professional level, is now head coach and VP of hockey operations. A twofer. </p><p>Not something a lot of coaches manage.</p><p>Roy must either be a smooth talker or have connections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saint Patrick

**Author's Note:**

> This is the product of an epic email thread with the lovely [ayal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ayal/pseuds/ayal). Fair warning, it is crack fic that uses demonic tropes. Please bear that in mind.

Lavy's heard a few things about Roy. Most of them his silly goalie superstitions, but the one that sticks out in Lavy's mind at the moment is that Roy, with practically no coaching experience at the professional level, is now head coach and VP of hockey operations. A twofer.

Not something a lot of coaches manage.

Roy must either be a smooth talker or have connections. Either way, if Lavy could somehow persuade Roy to help him--

It would be nice to be employed again.

As Lavy looked around Roy's house while being herded by Roy towards the study, Lavy can't help but notice shadows where there shouldn't be shadows-- and Lavy's pretty sure the altitude didn't cause that.

The seat Lavy sat in was a little too short, forcing Lavy to sit with his knees huddled a little close to his chest. Roy has a large picture of John Tortorella with red Xs over where Tortorella's eyes should be, hanging on the wall.

"I didn't know the Canucks and the Avs were such rivals," Lavy tried--

Roy snapped his head up from rifling through the files, looking for that soul wavier, and looked towards the picture. He said, "Not yet," in a tone that sounded like he would walk through broken glass to rip out Tortorella's eyes and attach them to the picture.

Lavy swallowed. He reminded himself, _this is for employment this is for employment _, and laughed weakly.__

Roy grinned, as if he had picked up on Lavy's thoughts. Roy pulled out the form and leered at Lavy, taking great delight how squirmy Lavy is.

Lavy wished he had listened to Max (but not Bylsma, fuck Bylsma).

"So what can I help you with?" Roy said, his voice just this side of oily.

"I was wondering if you could help me out, with my employment situation? Maybe you could give me some advice or...?" He trailed off because Roy's face looked kinda... red but Roy didn't look like he was about to choke Lavy --instead Roy looked gleeful.

That was even scarier.

Roy nodded, said "I think I can help you with that. But this isn't just about getting a job, is it? You want to be better than someone, don't you?"

Lavy scowled down at the floor, fuming about Bylsma's success. Coaching Team USA. Coaching a team that has Sidney fucking Crosby on it. And then Bylsma had the *gall* to try to call him off, to warn him off from doing what he was meant to do-- coach hockey! Fuck Disco Dan.

"I can give you all of that you just need to give me one little thing,” Roy continued, sliding the rather thick stack of papers towards Lavy.

The word 'soul' cropped up a lot in those papers. As well as the word 'hellfire'. Definitely not contractual boilerplate. Lavy would have to call his lawyer--

Lavy felt a weird floating sensation in his head. Could it be the altitude?

#

Torts laughed at Bylsma's panicked voice, saying "I thought you hated Lavy?"

Torts' phone crackled with the static of Bylsma's sigh, and Bylsma said, "I do. But trust me, I know when something's up and there's definitely something up. Talbo told me."

"Oh, Max Talbot, Mr. Reliable, *told* you."

"Quit fucking around, Torts. Talbo doesn't tattle but he's been saying things about Roy--"

Torts almost broke his phone, he was gripping it so hard. "Roy," he repeated, trying for casual and landing in a strained position.

"Yeah, Roy."

Shit! Torts knew right when Roy took over Avs' operations that he would be trouble. Hell, he knew the minute Roy winked at all of Canada in '93. No goalie-- a human one, at any rate-- could just shrug off shots in such a high-stake game.

"I called Lavy about it, but he told me to fuck off and I might've told him to go die in a fire."

Torts wasn't really paying attention to what Bylsma was saying, looking for his file on Roy. It was pretty hefty. It would be thicker if Torts included their other uh... _encounters_.

Torts winced and glared up at the picture of Roy hanging on his wall before he remembered he was talking on the phone.

"Anyway, the way Roy laughs kinda scares me and you're the only one whose number I have, so," Bylsma trailed off, now catching on to how uninterested Torts seemed on the other end of the line.

Torts blinked, realizing it was his turn to talk, said, "Sounds like Lavy's in the shit. You should probably come over and give me all the details."

"But I just told you all the--”

"See you soon." Torts hung up and snickered to himself for a second. He always figured Bylsma had a thing for Lavy.

#

Bylsma dragged his ass down to Torts' office-- which was straight out of Office Depot save for a large picture of Patrick Roy on the wall. The picture was pockmarked with pushpins, all of them blood-red.

That was disturbing. Did the Avs and the Nucks have a rivalry he somehow didn't know about? But before Bylsma can actually think a little deeper about it, Torts cleared his throat very loudly.

Bylsma put on a slight smile, "I didn't know the Avs and the Canucks hated each other that much?", trying to make himself more comfortable in this austere office.

"I hate him. You want me to hate you too? Tell me what's going on with your little man,” Torts retorted, tapping his fingers on the desk.

Bylsma flushed. "Lavy's not mine. And I told you, Lavy's up to something shady with Roy. That interested you enough to ask me *here*," he said, waving a hand around the room.

Torts slammed down the folder on his desk. It was thick. Big enough to kill someone. Torts said, "Listen to me, because I'm only going to say this once. Roy is a demon."

"I know he's not pleasant but--"

"LISTEN TO ME. You know Satan, his minions and all that bullshit? It's not bullshit. Have you ever felt uncomfortable around Shero?"

"Shero's a GM, all coaches feel uncomfortable around GMs."

"Think, you idiot, what team would agree to trade away their captain? Let alone more than one? Shero's got demonic influences. Look at Roy. When he demanded a trade to one of the worst teams in the NHL, were people actually thinking the Nordiques would move to Denver and win a cup their first season there? NO. Do you think Roy just walked into Sherman's office and said, 'Hey, I'd like to try this coaching thing'? FUCK NO."

"Roy's a... demon?"

"That's what I've been fucking saying for the last fucking five minutes, how can you even coach."

"It's a lot to take in!” Bylsma said defensively, adjusting his glasses. But now that he thought about it, it made sense. The way Shero gave off that vibe that gave him a cold clamp of fear down his back. And the scent of gunpowder that seemed to constantly hang around Roy.

Bylsma cleared his throat, willing himself to stay calm, and asked, "So if Roy's a demon... what is he doing with Lavy?"

Torts scoffed loudly, folding his arms, "He wants his soul, what else?"

Bylsma was sure his face was doing something weird right now, but it was *weird*-- "How do you know he's a demon?"

"I have experience... dealing with demons,” Torts said, his eyes shiftier than they ought to be.

Bylsma's brow creased. "You're not one, are you?"

"Fuck no!" He slammed his hands down on his desk and Bylsma jumped in his chair. "Do you honestly think I would be telling you all this if was? I'm one of the few non-demons who know they exist,” he pointed his finger at Bylsma's chest, "And now you are too."

"How do you know about them?" A thought crossed Bylsma's mind about Roy trying to take Torts' soul but he pushed it away.

"None of your fucking business. I know how Roy works. You need to help me, though, if you want to make sure Lavy still has his soul."

"What? Why me?" Bylsma did *not* want to join in this little hunting expedition.

"You have protection."

"What." Bylsma was sure crucifixes or Stars of David weren't going to work for him; hockey didn't leave much room for other things to do.

"Shero. Roy's not going to do anything stupid to a guy Shero likes."

“Shero. You mean to say he's a...*demon*?” Bylsma swallowed.

Torts shrugged, said, “Shero's half-demon, his dad was called Fog for a reason. Shero didn't fire you last season even though you were on the hot seat. He likes you. Back to the plan. Lavy's going to be kinda weird, because that's how Roy works. He's good at messing with people's impulse control. You have to get Lavy to come to you."

"Lavy hates me."

Torts rubbed his temples in annoyance, and tried, "He has your number."

Bylsma squeezed his lips together. No way was Bylsma going to tell Torts he gave Lavy that number after getting loaded on a few shots in Philly.

"I guess I could get him to come to Pittsburgh. That's pretty far from Denver,” Bylsma said, as non-committal as he could get. This whole demon thing was fucking crazy, but even Bylsma figured he had to do something to get Lavy out from Roy's influence.

Bylsma added, "Last time I tried to talk to him, it didn't go well."

"Goad him into fighting you if you have to. I need you to keep an eye out for Roy too. Keep your ear to the ground and talk to Talbot."

Bylsma nodded grimly and sulked out of the office.

Torts just hoped Lavy hadn't already signed away his soul but Roy hadn't called him to taunt him so he didn't think he had. He felt bad for a moment for Bylsma. Torts was risking Bylsma's life-- without telling him-- but his pathetic crush on Lavy was annoying.

Torts sulked, staring at the heavily-pock-marked picture of Roy. Roy’s big weakness was his dick, really. Torts knew from experience— so if he could lure Lavy, and in turn lure Roy, someplace where Roy can be.

Torts faltered. Killing was so permanent. And nigh-impossible for a devil as powerful and as old as Roy. But containing him? Maybe with the equivalent of a swimming pool’s worth of holy water?

Impossible— Torts smacked himself in the forehead. No. It was doable.

Torts picked up the phone; he was calling in a favor from Monsignor Pins. An entire ice rink could be blessed, right?

#

Bylsma had managed to get Lavy to come to Pittsburgh. It was hard, and he wasn't proud of it, but those... *pictures* worked. Bylsma squirmed at the memory. Hey, what were a few nude pictures compared to Lavy's soul?

And why did Torts tell him to meet Lavy at the CONSOL rink? From what Torts had implied, getting Roy into trouble would be very difficult.

Lavy, when Bylsma saw him walk onto the CONSOL, looked like he was miles away, his eyes dim. Roy on the other hand... Well. No glass panels would be safe around Roy today, that's for sure.

Roy spotted Bylsma from across the ice--

Bylsma wasn't eagle-eyed but even he could tell that was one hell of an epic snarl. The pure look of fury made Dan stumble back. The stumble broke out into a run across the ice when Roy flew towards him--

Bylsma smacked into Torts and hissed at him, "Why didn't you get here faster?" before looking over his shoulder and noticing Roy was standing still at center ice looking madder than he had ever seen him--

Roy's face was red. Like, jolly rancher cherry flavor red.

"What did you do?" But Torts ignored him to saunter over to Roy and laugh in his face. Bylsma was pissed. Trying to spy on a demon and coax your enemy into trekking across the country was hard work, and now he had to watch Torts gloat. He looked over at the prone form of Lavy on the ice.

Lavy laid there like a slug, like it was his only defense. Not that Bylsma could blame him. Lavy's defensive system had always been a little sketchy. He leaned down and dragged Lavy towards the home bench-- and boy was that ironic--

Bylsma plopped down, out of breath, and watched Tortorella cackle at Roy. Bylsma shifted around the bench. Roy was not only a weird shade of red, but he had developed horns while Bylsma was busy wrestling Lavy's fat ass onto the bench. Why was Roy stuck at center ice?

What in the hell did Torts do?

Fuck, if they were going to blow up CONSOL Shero wouldn't like that.

"YEAH YOU FUCK, I BROUGHT IN THE BIG GUNS," Torts bellowed, "CALLED IN A JESUIT.”

Going by the expression on Roy's face, Roy was a little too busy with being in excruciating pain to appreciate Torts’ scintillating wit. Roy looked down at the ice with murder in his eyes, and Bylsma found himself muttering Grace because he would like to keep his face non-shredded, thank you.

Bylsma was wondering who was going the tell the NHL one of their head coaches was actually a demon lord and trapped at CONSOL's center ice. He wasn't going to volunteer--

"What are you going to do," Blysma asked Torts, "I don’t think Sid will like having Roy stuck to the face-off circle."

To put it mildly.

Torts folded his arms in front of his chest, and leaned back against the glass, taking in Roy’s misery.

"Nothing to do about it, Bylsma, but to have Roy resurfaced." Bylsma heard the chug-chug of a Zamboni coming from the equipment tunnel, propelled by no apparent force but some weird attraction towards Roy's demonic aura.

The Zamboni hurtled towards Roy, crunching him--

The ice glowed Flyers-orange before it shimmered over to its normal white, like a Zamboni hadn't just run over a demon, although there was a slight red smear around the face-off circle.

Lavy jerked awake-- looked at Bylsma in horror-- then at the center ice-- like he wanted to vomit. Bylsma quickly scooted away. Lavy cleared his throat very loudly.

Torts spun around from surveying the now-demonic-trap-ice in an impatient huff, saying “Yeah?”

"Who’s gonna tell Bettman," Lavy got sickly pale at saying the name, like any normal human would. Thanks a lot, 500-year-old demonic hex.

Torts groaned. Bettman. Bettman. The top demon at the very top wouldn’t be happy to hear that his prized apprentice was now smeared across CONSOL ice. Maybe if Torts tried to tell Bettman that Roy was stealing souls when he wasn’t supposed to be—

No. That would mean he had to deal with Shanahannananananananana, known to normal humans as Shanahan, and his stupid wandering hands. Torts would swear on his children’s lives that Shanahan’s right hand had firmly attached itself to his ass the last time Torts stormed out of Shanahan’s office. And what’s to say that Shanahan would mete the appropriate punishment to Roy? Everyone knew Shanahan used a 16-ball.

The arena screamed. More accurately, it screamed in Roy’s voice, “LET ME GO YOU FUCKERS I SWEAR I’LL SUMMON BETTMAN.”

"Please don’t," Lavy cried, his voice all high-pitched and quavering.

Torts had enough of this shit. “FINE”, he said to the arena supports, “NO MORE STEALING SOULS AND THEY’LL LET YOU GO.”

"… REALLY? BUT YOU’D NEVER LET ME GO,” Roy's voice replied.

Torts smiled grimly, muttered, “Not a chance.”

Blysma and Lavy gave each other soppy looks--

But then Bylsma scowled at Lavy, saying, "I can't believe you slept with a demon,” as they see Roy pop back into his normal form, none the worse for wear.

Torts mistook Bylsma's words, and glared at both Bylsma and Lavy, "I never slept with him alright? And both of you stay away from Shanahan!" Torts grabbed Roy's hand and dragged him off center ice.

Roy snickered, going easily. Lavy and Bylsma exchanged a horrified look. Suddenly those pictures in both Roy and Torts' offices made a twisted sort of sense.

Lavy blinked, still very pale, and muttered, “I'm not 100% on what happened. Do you even know?”

“I don't know shit,” Bylsma muttered, “But would you like coffee?”

#

Torts and Roy flopped back on the bed, sweaty (well, Torts was) and wrecked. Roy said to the ceiling, “You sure you want to go on demon hunting?”

Torts snaps back, “Says the demon who tried to steal a soul even though Bettman said not to.”

Roy shrugs, “John, when have you ever known me not to take advantage?”

Torts snorts, hating himself a little for even laughing. Lavy had looked like an owl with a pellet shoved up the wrong way— and Disco Dan was on the verge of confessing his undying love for Lavy when they left CONSOL.

"Did you take a little bit of Lavy’s soul, though?"

"Lavy? Nah. By Satan though, I tried. Too much hairspray."

"Ah." Torts mentally filed *that* factoid away, and said, "There’s going to be no next time. No soul stealing, no wheeling dealing."

"But!"

"Come on, Roy, you’re manipulating the Avs GM, what’s his name, Sherman, into saying yes to anything that pops into your or Sakic's head."

"He was running the Can into the ground!"

"You’ve gotta cool that a little, you know what goes around comes around. Would be a pity to have that MacKinnon kid hurt."

"Could say the same about the ginger twins."

Torts waves a hand, “Nah, they're robots. The Swedes are very good at robots.. Makes my job a lot easier.”

"You know what would make it easier? A healthy Kesler."

"NO WHEELING DEALING GODDAMNIT!”

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](http://hastybooks.tumblr.com)!


End file.
